


Your Ghosts Still Walk on Solid Ground

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Psychonauts (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Conversations, F/M, Flashbacks, Lonliness, Offices, Old Friendships, Second-Person Perspective, Smoking, Two OCs - Freeform, a shitty walk down memory lane, first-time smoking, memory triggers, the people we left behind, title sounds like a post-rock album, tw: implications of past abuse, tw: trauma-induced panic attak, tw: underage smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 22:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: Your partner asks you a question that ruins your day.
Relationships: Sasha Nein & Milla Vodello
Kudos: 6





	Your Ghosts Still Walk on Solid Ground

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in the course of two days. It was posted on the psychowhatsits discord server, then to a google doc, and now its here. Pay attention to the trigger warnings- this is not a happy fic, and although I don't believe that I was distressingly graphic, it might still have an effect on sensitive readers. 
> 
> As always, thank you to Rocket for all the help editing, and thank you to my friends for supporting me and my random fics!

"Do you ever find yourself suddenly remembering someone you've forgotten?"

She flings the question at you as you're coming back in from your smoke break. You're not ready to process it. "What?" you say, glad that she cannot see you blinking at her from behind your glasses.

"I got this letter today," she says, breezing past your confusion. She flips the folded sheet of paper over, giving you a glimpse of fine print too small to read. "And the signature," she says as she points to a line of tall, looping letters near the bottom, "made me think of this woman I used to work with." She turns the letter back over, the elaborate pink glitter of her nails standing out against the off-white paper. A dent appears between her brows as she reads over it.

You pass your desk and head to one of the chairs in front of hers. "A woman you worked with here?" you ask as you sit.

You're not surprised when she shakes her head. "No. Back at the..." She trails off, waves her hand, letting you fill in the blanks. “I haven’t thought of her in years.” 

"Hm." You sit back and rub your chin in contemplation. Your thumb catches a spot your morning shave missed. You push your annoyance aside. "Was her signature similar to that one?"

"See, that's the strange thing," she answers, tucking a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. "I don't think I ever saw her sign anything. Or, if I did, I don't remember what it looked like.” She leans forward, still scrutinizing the letter like it holds the cipher that will solve some mystery in her head. That same strand of hair comes loose again, falling over her collarbone.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to put her hair right, but you manage to still them. "The name itself, then?"

"No," she says, giving nothing further.

Curiosity stirs within you. It's unusual for her to share things about her life before the Psychonauts outside of your sessions. Here and now, any number of interruptions could occur. But you're not going to reject this opportunity for progress because of that. You spare a look at the door behind you to lock it with TK, then turn back to face her.

"What came to mind when you saw that signature?" you ask, your eyes locked onto her face. "Can you describe it?"

She does not respond. Nor does she meet your gaze; her eyes remain on the letter. You don't think she's reading it, however. You suspect that she's working out how much she's willing to share with you. Or rather, how much she's able to share without becoming overwhelmed. You don't mind. You tell yourself it's because the best answer to a question like this comes after serious thought. You deny that her silence gives you an excuse to watch her as she thinks. You won't go so far as to pretend you don't think she's beautiful. You aren't that good of a liar. But you do say that her beauty doesn’t affect your ability to be objective while working with her on things like this.

The way you swallow when she bites down on her lip puts considerable doubt into that self-assurance.

She doesn't notice you swallow, because that is when she breaks her silence. "We used to paint. Or the kids used to paint. It was like art therapy." The corner of her mouth twitches upward. "Of course, we never called it that." She inhales through her nose, makes a clicking sound with her tongue, then exhales. "There was this little girl." She holds her hand a few inches over the desk to show the girl's height. You're not sure if this will be relevant to the recollection. "She was trying to paint some kind of flower." She finally looks over at you, face scrunched up in thought. "I don't remember what kind of flower it was," she admits sheepishly.

You shrug, because you doubt that sort of detail matters. "That's fine. Go on."

"It wasn't going well. She was getting really frustrated." A smile curves her lips. It's weak though, and you don't think that it will be there for very long. "Fernanda came over before the girl could start crying. She took the girl's hand and guided the paintbrush for her." She extends a finger out and begins drawing loops into the air. "I just remember how she drew these loops to make the petals. They were red loops." She nods, as though confirming the information as accurate. "It was a red flower. Not a rose though, I remember that much."

"I see," you say to fill the air with some sound as you think. You want, very much, to learn more about Fernanda. But you aren't certain of how to go about it. You tend to be blunt when you are curious, and you know that she will deflect any questions you try to bludgeon her with. You steeple your fingers and cross one leg over the other, as though this posture will make you phrase your words more delicately.

"Fernanda wasn't at the orphanage that day," she says, before you can form a proper response. You already know which day she means. "In case you were wondering." 

You frown; even without telepathy, she read your thoughts. She laughs, your expression striking her as funny. It's shorter and harsher than her regular laugh, scraping against her throat as it exits her mouth. "I was trying to be tactful," you say, stung by her inconsideration of your consideration.

She sobers. "Sorry darling. I appreciate you trying, I really do." She tilts her head to the side. "You didn't answer my question."

You un-steeple your fingers, uncross your legs, and repress the sigh that tries to pass your lips. "I did not." You don't bother attempting to feign ignorance. She'll end it right here if you do, and you still think there's a chance you may be able to steer the conversation back to territory that interests you. "You did not really give me the chance."

She nods, acknowledging that you have a point. "Have you?" she asks, an expectant look on her face.

“I cannot say that I have," you answer, hoping to move the subject away from yourself.

"Really?" she asks, one eyebrow raised. She searches your face like she's looking for signs of dishonesty. 

You stiffen in response. It's hard not to take offense to her doubt. You may have evaded her questions in the past, but you've never outright lied to her before. "Yes, really," you say, a sharp edge to your tone.

Her eyes linger on you for a long, uncomfortable moment. You think that she is disappointed in you, and that annoys you more than it should. "Hm," she hums before looking away. She opens her drawer and tosses the letter into it. There is something final in the sound it makes as it shuts. "Have you seen the Henderson brain map?" she asks, picking up a file on her desk. 

You answer that you haven't. She hands you the folder and you take it back to your desk, where you study it in silence.

* * *

  
  


Hours later, it happens. You suddenly remember someone you had long forgotten.

It happens as you're pouring your fifth cup of coffee of the day. You were still dwelling on that aborted conversation when Paula's face appeared in your mind. You're surprised by how much detail you recall. The round chin, the slight slant of her eyes, her shag of straw colored hair, even the exact positions of the blemishes on her skin. The clarity of her is incredible, given that you haven't seen her since you were twelve.

You dislike thinking about that time in your life, but you're curious enough not to dismiss her to the back of your mind. You'd rather not delve into your long-buried memories in the second-floor breakroom, where any of your enemies could waltz in. So you take your coffee down to your lab. Well, it's not your lab per se; it's a little room nobody uses located at the end of the Research and Development wing. You have experimented with several psycho-active chemicals in it, so you think you're justified in referring to it as a laboratory.

You put your mug on the table and settle into the plush leather chair you took from the office across the hall. You lean back and look up at the ceiling to begin your contemplation. It's lumpy white stucco with a fluorescent light fixture you didn't bother to turn on in the middle. The raised bumps on the ceiling prove to be distracting, so you close your eyes.

Your mind takes you back to when you first met Paula. You'd been leaning against a wall in a lonely back alley in East Berlin. You don't remember what you were doing in that alley. Perhaps you were hiding in it. Maybe you were taking a break from wandering around the city. It doesn't matter. What does matter is the girl that appeared at your side from out of nowhere.

She smiled at you and said something in a language you couldn't understand. You remember saying 'what?' and feeling very stupid. Paula tried again, slowing her speech and enunciating with more care. At the time, you didn't know what language it was. You know now that it was Polish.

Paula didn’t try to communicate with you in Polish after that. She knew enough German to introduce herself, and to understand that you were Alexander. "But you can call me Sasha," you said, with all the charm that a twelve year old boy could muster.

She smiled and took a single squashed cigarette out of her pocket. It took you a moment to figure out why she was holding it out to you. "You need a light?" you asked, feeling pleased when she nodded. Lucky for you that you had snatched a pack of matches from the last restaurant you visited. You struck the match and lit her cigarette for her, after which she took a long drag. She held it out to you again when she finished, this time in offer. You took it, not expecting to like it as much as you did (although you still coughed after inhaling). 

Thinking about this makes you cringe. You hadn’t known how unsanitary such behavior was back then.

Paula sought you out everyday after that, always managing to find you in that big, crowded city. Some days the two of you would walk side by side, wandering without purpose or plan. On others you'd find a wall to lean against or a bench to sit on and stay there for hours, watching the people pass by. Few words were exchanged. Paula couldn't speak German that well, and you didn't have a lot to say anyway. The silence was welcome. She left you to your thoughts and you left her to hers.

Paula departed when the sun went down. You don't know where she went. You couldn’t ask her, and it never occurred to you to follow her. Mind reading wasn’t an option. You were still smarting from the last head you dove into, and you were terrified of what you might find in hers. You didn't miss the way she would tense up when adult men called out to her, or the way she hid behind you when they approached.

You're still not sure what Paula saw in a scrawny, penniless runaway. You were glad for her company, though. It had only been a month since you ran away from home, and you weren't accustomed to the solitude. Paula and her cigarettes brought you a little comfort. She was willing to share, even after you ran out of matches. You can't call the relationship you had with her a close one. You barely knew her. You can say that she warded off the loneliness, which was what you needed at the time. Maybe you did the same for her.

One night, after Paula left, you snuck into a bar in search of dinner. You saw a pack of cigarettes on a table and took them when the patron got up to use the bathroom. The pack was almost full, only missing two. When you presented them to Paula the next day, her face broke out into a smile as bright as the sun shining above. She opened her arms out to you, and then…

A breath catches in your throat as you open your eyes. You remember now. This was the day it ended. You don't want to continue this thought exercise, but it's too late to stop. The rest of the memory is playing out in your head, whether you want it to or not.

You froze up, unable to return Paula's embrace. The cigarettes may have fallen out of your grasp; you don't know for certain. You do remember how warm Paula had felt compared to the chilly autumn day. Too warm. You began to sweat in her arms.

You might have been able to endure a hug. But then she turned her head, her cheek pressing against your face as her lips sought yours. The panic shot through you like a bullet in the chest. Paula changed in an instant; the mouth touching yours becoming somebody else's. And you're horrified when you become somebody else too. You weren't Sasha and she wasn't Paula, and you weren't in some dingy little alley. You were somewhere in your head, relieving memories that weren't yours. That you never should have seen.

Repulsion shuddered through your body, then out of it in a wave. The force pushed Paula a good two meters away from you. She fell back, making a small, pained sound as she landed. Once free, you bolted, running through the city like the police were hot on your heels.

You can't remember what happened after that. You think you might have found your way onto a train. Or you could have hitched a ride on a truck going out of the city. Maybe you bypassed the checkpoints somehow and charged into West Berlin on foot. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you didn't stop until you were safe from that frightening young girl.

There's a soft tapping sound close by. You look down and realize that it is your hand, trembling on the table. You try to still it, then pick up the mug when you can't. The coffee tastes even worse than usual; room temperature does nothing to improve the flavor. You swallow it anyway. The sensation of the bitter liquid traveling down your esophagus is preferable to the discomfort twisting your insides.

You put the mug down and take stock of yourself. Your heart rate is elevated and there's a sheen of sweat on your forehead. You wipe the sweat away with the back of your hand and feel disgusted with yourself for doing so. You frown and reach into your jacket for your handkerchief. The corner of a pack of cigarettes hits your fingers first. Touching it makes you crave one, so you forget about the handkerchief and take the pack out instead.

You shake a cigarette out into your hand. You look at it instead of lighting it, observing its shape and feeling it between your fingers. It's a perfect cylinder, without a single dent or stain on the white paper. Far different from the one Paula had given you all those years ago. She must have snagged that one from a pocket, or fished it out from under a couch cushion.

You've had at least one a day for the past seventeen years. How is it possible that you haven't spared a thought for the girl who started your habit? At the very least, you should resent her for introducing you to the likely cause of your death. You don't resent her, though. When you think of her, you feel ashamed of how you abandoned her, and then forgot she ever existed. This despite you carrying a piece of her in your pocket everyday for nearly two decades.

You bring the cigarette to your lips and light it with pyrokinesis. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. The gray smoke travels upward, growing thinner before disappearing. It's going to damage your ceiling, but you don't care (although you might later). You lean back into your chair and take another drag. The tobacco has a smooth taste and a strong scent. It drives the shame and embarrassment you feel away.

You think while you smoke. Not about yourself, you've had enough of that for one day. Instead, you focus on your partner. Had she gone over her memories of Fernanda the same way that you had with Paula? Or had she been able to shut her old co-worker away with the letter? She hadn't behaved any different from normal after the conversation. Then again, you've met few people who were better than her at concealing their emotions. She's able to hide a lot behind those masks of professional courtesy and vapid friendliness. You'd be more impressed if she wasn't wearing them around you as well.

You haven't gotten any closer to figuring her out by the time you've smoked your cigarette to a stub. You snuff it out in the ashtray, then stare at its remains for longer than necessary. Your jitters are gone now, and all that's left is a exhausted melancholy. Today feels like a failure. You missed an opportunity for progress with your partner and you recalled an upsetting memory for no reason at all. You're not happy, but you're also not one to wallow in your setbacks. You rise from your seat and make a swift exit from the room, shoving everything that happened in it to the back of your mind.

You suspect that it won't be as easy to forget Paula this time around.

**Author's Note:**

> There's no real reason to have written this in second person. I just read two of the three books in the Broken Earth Trilogy (go read them if you like fantasy novels) and was inspired to do it, I guess.


End file.
